The rain had stopped. Lachlan's eyelids drooped more from contentment than fatigue as he watched Beth nurse their son. With his back braced against one of the decorative walnut foot posts, his sleeping daughter cradled against his bare chest, he wondered if life could get any better than what he had now. In one respect, it was a little scary. He had more to lose. In the past, all that could be taken from him was his life and his estate. In death, though, he had managed to hold on to not only his belongings, but also a semblance of life. His gaze shifted to regard his daughter. Pale peach fuzz covered an otherwise pink head. Blond eyelashes and eyebrows. Her nose was barely bigger than his thumbnail, her mouth a darker pink and pouty. She was a tiny replica of her mother, with one hand poking out of the pink blanket, the gracefully spread fingers twitching against one rounded cheek. She had been the one to awaken and exercise her lungs to be fed. Surprisingly, the boy had slept through the ruckus.
